Archive for February, 2009


Scenes from a Hat: Resign

February 11, 2009

Scenes from a Hat: Resign

by Trinity Blacio
Editor: M. E. Ellis

Forced to Resign

Joe took one more glance at her home. Her car engine idled, and her bags were packed. She hated to leave the place she’d called home for the past six years.

How did they find me? It doesn’t matter that I can’t risk any of my friends’ lives. I have to leave. Tomorrow morning, my boss and my fantasy lover will know I’ve gone.

Her family’s pack had found her. The first trace of them came when her friend and confidant, Tracy, notified her someone had been asking questions about her. Tracy warned her earlier today, and it took Joe only three hours to say her goodbyes and type her resignation.

Big snowflakes fell all around her, covering her hair and body. Life in Alaska was her dream, and now it was being ripped from her.

Why can’t they just leave me alone? There are other females. They don’t need to barter me out to other packs. Can’t my father see he’s destroying me? Doesn’t he even care?

* * * *

Lone Wolf peered at his beta, Dark Horse, who sat next to him as they drove towards Joe’s home. Both of them knew Joe was going to bolt.

“Did you call the pack together and let them know we would be having company next week?” Lone Wolf snapped.

“Yes. I still can’t believe she’s from the Florida pack. To think our mate has been hiding here the whole time. Her father has backed off for only one week. He wants us mated now; he’s afraid the Northern Texas pack leader will find her.” His growl rumbled in the truck. “I called the squad, and all of them will be here tonight. I’ve told them the situation, and they know to secure the cabin.”

Lone wolf nodded, concentrating on the ice-covered road. “We’re lucky that Drake went into the office today or we’d never have known of her intention till tomorrow.”

“She needs her ass tanned…what the hell?” Dark Horse’s gaze on the back bumper of Joe’s Blazer. “Shit! It’s buried in the snow bank.”

Lone Wolf slammed on the brakes. “Watch the live wires!” Lone Wolf shouted as they both jumped out of the truck to survey the area.

“Let’s go!” The beast in Dark Horse roared to life, and he dug his way to his mate.

Dark Horse was right; Joe needed her behind blistered for this stunt. Dark Horse pawed at the passenger side of the vehicle. Lone Wolf brushed the last of the snow off the back window. His gaze caught movement inside.

He pounded his fist on the window. “Joe, slide down the back window.”

Her head popped up. Fresh tears dripped down her face and mixed with blood from a cut on her forehead. He sucked in the cold air; his beast fought to take control, wanting nothing but to clean her wounds and hold her.

The window slowly lowered they both grabbed boxes and removed them.

“Can you crawl back here, honey?” Lone Wolf asked.

“I think so.” Her broken and shaky whisper reached him, sending his protective nature into full gear. She grabbed the bag next to her crawling over the seat. A rip marred her jeans, and a deep cut on her thigh showed through. Blood dripped out, leaving a trail. Her small hand reached for his big one. Dark Horse picked her up around the waist, taking her weight off of her damaged leg. He pulled her warm body gently out of the car and sat her on the bumper.

“Where else are you hurt, Joe?” Dark horse asked, gazing up at her face while Lone Wolf kneeled down next to him.

“I think just my leg and my head. I can’t believe this! Can’t anything go right for me?”

Lone Wolf growled. “I want you to shift. It will heal you.” His voice deepened, and he smelled her response.

Her big brown eyes meet his. “I need to leave. Don’t you understand? I had to resign! It’s too dangerous.” Her back stiffened.

Lone Wolf smiled, showing his teeth. His alpha voice snarled, “You’ll not be leaving. Ever!”


Scenes from a Hat: Shame

February 4, 2009

Scenes from a Hat: Shame

by Desirée Lee
Editor: M. E. Ellis

Roland hunched over the small, antique secretary desk, squinting. The banker’s lamp succeeded in creating only a pale, amber miasma of illumination.

He paused to gaze at the Cartel clock on the wall. The low light glinted off the ormolu craftsmanship, giving the curvilinear design a haunted appearance. Time is running short. She will be back soon. I must do this now.

He clicked the pen and set it to the paper.

* * *

Dear Journal,

I don’t know why I refer to the journal as if it were a separate entity. I suppose it is like a young girl writing in a diary. I guess because I’m not a girl, I don’t think of this as a diary, even though it’s basically the same.

I have no other outlet for my thoughts. She won’t permit me to speak my mind, not yet, at least. I must earn that privilege. I did not realize when I agreed to this position how deeply entrenched I would become.

She defined it for me today. I am her slave. When I am allowed to speak, I address her only as “Mistress”. If I mess up, my punishment is harsh.


How did I end up as a slave? Sometimes, when she leaves me all alone, I wonder that. I’m a grown man. I have two college degrees. I could be out achieving all the dreams I had as a child, yet I am not. I am confined to this house for the duration of our agreement. I am at her beck and call.

I’m her maid. I’m her cook. I’m her launderer. I’m her lover. I’m her dog.

Last night brought a new breakthrough for me. I slept in her bed for the first time. Oh yes, Journal, vivid dreams carried me through until dawn, nestled in the comfort of her 1500 thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. I didn’t even know sheets could be made that fine. As I lay down, my skin prickled to gooseflesh from the coolness of the fabric. It bore such stark contrast to the smoldering heat of her body, once I was finally given leave to touch her. My senses jolted at their journey across the broad, tangible spectrum. It momentarily overtook the reality of the situation—I was lying in her bed, HER bed. Once I remembered that, it awed me again.

Being in her bed brought me a heightened perception. Nothing before last night compared. She brought me to her private place, her sanctum. I penetrated the rift. I finally made it into her trusted circle.

I became her slave, wholly and truly. No more pussyfooting around. No more teases, taunts. She told me for certain. I am hers.

I sit here and write…and think. Many men would not want this. They could never give themselves, body, heart, and soul to a person for the express purpose of being dominated in every manner. Now that I have done exactly thus, I cannot imagine any other way of being.

If I am lucky, she’ll let me sleep in luxury again tonight. Then again, I am fortunate to be in her service. Mistress is beautiful, strong, forceful, and caring.

Journal, you know my secrets. You are my confessor, my friend, my confidante. She is my world, but you, Journal, are my inner space. You know what delves in the deepest, darkest recesses of my psyche. You know who I am. You know what I am.

I am enamored. I am in her thrall.

And I’ve never known happiness this great before…ever. I’m aroused already merely imagining what she might have in store for me tonight.

I ought to feel some measure of shame.

Try as I may, I do not.

I have to go now. I hear her key in the lock.